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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043086">Reuniting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_Our_Sweetest_Hours/pseuds/All_Our_Sweetest_Hours'>All_Our_Sweetest_Hours</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Wolves Will Come Again [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:47:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_Our_Sweetest_Hours/pseuds/All_Our_Sweetest_Hours</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sansa realises that winning the war does not alone heal the wounds.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arya Stark &amp; Sansa Stark, Jon Snow &amp; Arya Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Wolves Will Come Again [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/507258</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Reuniting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>-Canon Divergence from Season Six.<br/>-This story is part of a series.<br/>-As always, thank you for all of your feedback and support. I appreciate it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is approaching evening, during the beginning of the week, when Sansa begins to feel the first stirrings of restlessness. Though she and Jon have reconciled somewhat there is still a persistent awkwardness that hangs between them and she cannot help but feel he has been avoiding her.</p>
<p>She feels bored. Disconnected. Lonely.</p>
<p>They have not even been back at Winterfell for half the year and already Sansa is beginning to feel the emptiness of the halls without her siblings running through them and the coldness of the hearth without her father and mother sitting before it.</p>
<p>It feels like there is only ever anything but ghosts and memories. Memories of her family, her dear Septa and beloved, Lady…even Theon who she cannot bring herself to hate when she remembers the boy she grew up with and the man who helped her escape from Ramsay.</p>
<p>The halls of Winterfell are hauntingly empty and the walls so chillingly cold and the only person who makes her feel like she is back home refuses her company on a sudden claim of working too much.</p>
<p>But she will not allow Jon to pull away from her now. She will not lose what she has suffered so much to gain.</p>
<p>......</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She finds Jon in the library with a flagon of ale in his hand. He is so deep in thought that he doesn't notice her until she places a hand on his shoulder and he startles.</p>
<p>"I've searched the whole castle for you," she says, somewhat petulantly. "This is not where I expected to find you."</p>
<p>Jon chuckles morbidly and swigs from his cup, swallowing deeply. "I'm sorry."</p>
<p>He is deep in his cups; pensive and melancholy. She already knows he will make dreadful company tonight.</p>
<p>Sansa sits across the table from him. There are books before him; books of old Targaryens and histories of dragons. It worries her before she chides herself for being so selfish and silly. He can be a Stark—a King of Winterfell- and still want to know about himself.</p>
<p>"What are you looking at?" She leans over, half sprawled across the table in the most unladylike manner, to peer at his books.</p>
<p>Jon's hand reflexively goes to cover the page before him and Sansa thinks he might look guilty over it.</p>
<p>"If you tell me, I could help you look," she says gently.</p>
<p>His gaze on her is hard though not unkind and he inhales through his nose with a shaky breath. "You can't help me," he says, his voice deep and pitiful. "If I told you, you wouldn't want to help me. You'd likely never be able to stand the sight of me."</p>
<p>What odd sentiments, Sansa thinks as she leans back, her fear growing in the pit of her stomach. He makes little sense. She wonders if he is thinking of leaving and joining the Targaryen Queen when she lands in Westeros; perhaps he believes her his true family who he can make a clean start with, who has never been unkind or reminds him of a man who lied to him throughout his life.</p>
<p>For Jon has vowed that Sansa will stay in Winterfell as she desires but she realises now that he has not made the same commitment of himself. He has promised to protect her, though, a promise that he surely cannot keep from Dragonstone or Kings Landing.  Sansa is not entirely selfish for she understands that Jon has suffered his own torments, that he struggles now to reconcile who he is with who he believed himself. She wants him to be free and happy...but he promised to protect her and Sansa is weak enough that she will hold him to that vow.</p>
<p>"You're drunk and speaking nonsense, Jon. Come, let me help you to your quarters." She offers him her arm but he pushes her away.</p>
<p>"No," he tells her sharply. "I-don't touch me. Just leave me be, I'll be fine."</p>
<p>Sansa freezes a little, hand still hovering in the air between them. She thinks of grabbing him anyway and forcing him to his feet but his manner so far is unfamiliar and unnerving. She knows he will not be convinced so easily tonight.</p>
<p>"Very well," she says, thoroughly unsettled. "I'll honour your wishes tonight but if you need me, come to me, whatever the hour. I'll tell Lady Brienne to expect you."</p>
<p>"Arya was my sister," he tells her as she reaches the door. His expression is dark. Bitter.  "That's what I was thinking."</p>
<p>It seems like an accusation and Sansa wants to scrub the look he gives her from behind her own eyes. He looks at Sansa like she is not his sister, like her whole existence is a lie, and it leaves her more confused than ever. Had they not been doing so well until Ser Davos spoke his poison? It makes her eyes burn with unshed tears and her throat thick with feeling.</p>
<p>"I'm trying to be better to you than I was, Jon." She says, her voice a whispered echo in the silence of the room around them. "What more can I do?"</p>
<p>She leaves before he can answer and before he can see tears spring fresh. She leaves and goes to her chambers and weeps for everything she has ever lost and has left to lose...and everything she still tries to capture but cannot grasp. </p>
<p>When she dreams that night, she dreams of Lady. Her sweet, precious Lady who only ever raised up a growl in her defence, who only ever loved her no matter how selfish, spoilt, entitled and stupid she was.</p>
<p>Lady was the best part of Sansa when Sansa was at her worst, and Lady is dead.</p>
<p>......</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She is surprised when Jon comes to break his fast with her the next morning. They dine on meat, for fruit is scarce in the winter, and what conversation they make is flat and subdued.</p>
<p>Sansa makes a point of telling Jon how awful he looks and that she can still smell ale on him. Her sadness and sleeplessness has turned her moody and she thinks he should take his fair blame for it.</p>
<p>Jon picks at his platter and looks suitably scolded though Sansa isn't as tough on him as he deserves. She ought to tell him how cruel he was for making her cry and giving her sad dreams but the thought of her own weakness shames her a little so she keeps it to herself.</p>
<p>He could make more of an effort though. Instead, he broods into his breakfast and makes her wonder why he even bothered coming to her at all for she might as well be a drape or a footstool for the attention he pays her.</p>
<p>"I just have things on my mind is all," he says when she questions him on his low mood.</p>
<p>"What things?" She presses and when he digs in his heels and refuses to budge, she allows her consternation to creep into her voice. "You've always told me of things on your mind before."</p>
<p>He sighs and drops his fork so it hits the table with a loud thud. "Don't start a fight, Sansa. If it was serious, I would tell you but I'm fine. I don't have to tell you every last thought that comes into my mind."</p>
<p>Sansa is stunned for he rarely loses his temper with her and even when he does, his words are never so unfairly curt. </p>
<p>"What an absolute beast you are, Jon Snow!"</p>
<p>He looks momentarily shocked himself by her outburst and the force she puts behind her words but he recovers quick with a sigh of frustration that she has heard many times before; that patronising, pompous idiot. By the gods, could she wring his neck sometimes.</p>
<p>Well, she refuses to rise to his expectations since he's clearly just trying to cause an argument. Instead, she lifts her nose and snipes at his entire existence. "I might as well not even be here," she says. "I'm beginning to think you wish I wasn't the way you act towards me these days."</p>
<p>"I act no different," he protests but Sansa can tell by how quickly the words come forth that the arrogant swine can barely believe them himself.</p>
<p>"You do!" she says, forcing herself to bite back her anger and the volume which she expresses it. He always does this. First he plays on her nerves and then he pushes her beyond her limits and before she knows it, her ladies are twittering and starting rumours of how poor King Jon has to stand there like an ever patient and caring dolt while his cruel and nasty sister yells at him.</p>
<p>She pushes her chair back and sets about straightening her sewing baskets and folding half stitched clothing—anything she can get her hands on because if she doesn't keep them busy, she might just use them to whack him across the head.</p>
<p>"You're always cross with me, and I know you lie to me too. That's when you're not simply ignoring me, of course-and I've done nothing wrong to earn it…lately," she concedes because she is still aware that the disconnect between them is rooted in her childhood dismissal of him. "I've only tried to be kind but you just want to ruin everything."</p>
<p>She turns away from him because she cannot stand to look at him any longer.</p>
<p>He truly is a terror sometimes, more so when he says, "Don't cry, Sansa,"</p>
<p>"I'm not crying, you arrogant swine," she snaps, turning on him so he can see proof of her words.</p>
<p>Imagine it, the nerve! Sitting there and making himself the hero in his own mind and blaming her delicate lady's sensibilities for tears that do not even exist.</p>
<p>"I wouldn't waste my tears on a pig-headed fool like you!" The servants are sure to have heard that one.</p>
<p>Silence follows and Sansa turns away from him again. She would be happy to never look at him again, and by the gods, she swears it. She knows she shouldn't even let him rile her so or make her feel so ill with his foul behaviour but she can't help it.</p>
<p>She suddenly feels a firm hand at her shoulder, trying to turn her around but she jerks away from his grasp and keeps at her folding. She folds the same dress three different ways before dropping it in anger. He takes the chance to turn her to face him and pulls her into his embrace until her head rests against his chest.</p>
<p>She keeps her arms at her sides though and fumes against him, only letting him hold her as her anger begins to ebb away, settling into a restrained fury. Perhaps she <i>should</i> start crying and wet his furs until the strands mat together and look unsightly. She should cry until he is soaked and that would serve him right.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry," he says, pulling back to look at her though she keeps her narrowed eyes at his collar. He is wearing the first cloak she stitched for him, the same cloak her Father wore in every dream she had of him since his death. She remembers the happiness and love that went into that embroidered direwolf. All of her hope—at finding him, at being safe from Ramsay, of reclaiming Winterfell together- it is all etched into that small little sigil of their House.</p>
<p>Her fingers follow the pattern unconsciously and it takes her a moment to remember that she is supposed to be making him suffer for his dreadful behaviour against her. She suddenly feels too weary to fight with him.</p>
<p>"You don't have to ignore me," she says, feeling tired enough that she could sleep the rest of the day through. "I am sorry that I am not Arya and that I did not treat you as kindly as her but I am trying, Jon. I truly am."</p>
<p>He looks confused for a moment and she wonders if he might be angry the way his jaw sets and his eyes turn stormy and restrained. His hands drop from her shoulders to take her own which still hang limply at her sides.</p>
<p>"I'm happy you are not Arya." He says and now Sansa is confused because is that not what started his pathetic behaviour in the first place?</p>
<p>Sansa glares at him; still unsure how she should respond to such indeterminable behaviour. "What?" she says, after an uncertain pause.</p>
<p>Jon closes his eyes and swallows deeply, his brow furrowed. "I mean that I'm not trying to foster a comparison between the two of you, Sansa, don't you understand that?" His grip tightens though not uncomfortably so.</p>
<p>His words could be taken as an insult; as an assertion that she is not his precious sister and never will be but Sansa feels oddly warmed and calmed by his tone.</p>
<p>"Yes…" she says, uncertainly and without conviction because she cannot find the appropriate response but that seems to be what he wishes to hear.</p>
<p>Jon nods and bites his lip painfully. He looks sad and sulky and moody, and thoroughly unconvinced by her reply.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry, Sansa." He says, softly and she can hear a catch in his throat that she feels in her own heart. He looks so troubled; his dragonglass eyes are black and heavy. "It's not your fault, it's me, I'm---," He blinks away the words he cannot finish and nods to himself. She feels a kiss on her cheek and his curls brush at her eyelids and his beard tickles at her face as he pulls away.</p>
<p>"I'll try harder," he says. "I'll do better."</p>
<p>......</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Winterfell is thick with snow the day Arya returns. Looking back, Sansa is surprised how normal a day it began. She woke as usual, rose and dressed. She and Jon, somewhat renewed after their argument, had already broken their fasts together before he left for the training yard, with Sansa deliberating whether to follow him down there after her duties had been attended to. </p>
<p>They are in the training yard when the youngest of the Stark girls comes home, afternoon sun glancing off ice and steel.  Jon is delighting in finally being able to put his papers to the side and clash swords. It is a bitter day; winter at its finest with snow falling like dust from the sky. Sansa has layered herself with every fur cloak she can find in order to watch and has fashioned a weasel's pelt into a makeshift hood. Jon had almost split his sides laughing at the sight of her and urged her to remain indoors for the sake of decorum but she refused outright.</p>
<p>It's not often that she gets to see him so carefree and taking up a pastime he so clearly enjoys, though when she had told him that, he had scolded her that training was a very <i>serious</i> duty that might mean life or death.</p>
<p>Perchance there is a little part of her that takes comfort in watching him, for Jon is skilled with a blade and skilled with his fists. It reminds her of the equal parts thrill and revelation as he beat Ramsay's face into the dirt of Winterfell's courtyard with her watching on. The rage and his own satisfaction as Ramsay's bones crunched and crumbled under his fist. Her bastard brother, the one they called her father's dishonour made flesh; battle worn, bloodied and strong. She can remember wanting to slip inside his body so she could feel Ramsay break under her own weak, thin boned hands.</p>
<p>She is half watching the men train and half pretending not to overhear one of Tormund's filthy stories when the horn startles her. Jon stills and she knows that whoever is at the gates is someone unexpected.</p>
<p>A steward rushes over to him and Jon's gaze whips round to her. His shield clatters to the ground as she makes out the word that he mouths to her and she almost breaks her neck on the icy steps as she rushes down them.</p>
<p>Jon is ahead of her, small figure already in his arms, when Sansa reaches them. She doesn't dare to breathe, doesn't dare to hope. Perhaps she heard him wrong, perhaps she is dreaming this moment as she so often has already. Perhaps she did slip on the ice and has broken her neck and this is her death dream.</p>
<p>"Sansa!" she hears and the voice is too light to be Jon's. The eyes peeking out from the underside of his arm are too big and blue.</p>
<p>Arya is already in her arms by the time Sansa catches her breath and she doesn't know how. She thinks she might owe Jon an apology, that she might have wrenched Arya from his grasp, or Arya might have pulled herself free and barrelled into her because she can remember a sudden weight on her chest that took the air from her lungs but she can also remember not caring because it is the sweetest feeling in the world to be holding her sister once more.</p>
<p> Arya Stark, who was so little when their family began to fall apart. Sansa had already mourned her, the only hope she allowed was to give her description to Littlefinger's whores with instructions to fetch her immediately should they come across a child who matched it...and even that she did not dare to hope too much because who knew better than Sansa what happens to little girls alone in the world. </p>
<p>Her breath returns to her and all her life leaves her body. She falls to her knees, taking Arya with her, takes in everything that she can; her smell, her hair, her skin. She laughs and cries with contentment and offers small, inefficient apologies for every petty argument and moment of strife suffered between them as Arya does the same.</p>
<p>How long they sit and cry, Sansa does not know. She only recalls one moment of wiping her eyes and pulling back to truly see her sister, so grown and tall. Arya's hair is shorter, her clothes still delightfully inappropriate for a Lady. Everything about her is divine but Sansa notices the tired look in her eyes and how her skin is half blue with cold. Her innocence is gone in a way that feels both familiar and yet different.</p>
<p>"Here," Jon says as he lends Sansa his arm and puts his other around Arya's back to help them both up. "Let's get her inside and get her fed."</p>
<p>He leads them both away, Arya tucked into his retrieved cloak, one under each arm. They still cling to each other, arms wrapped around his sides, clasping hands at his front and he walks awkwardly, following Sansa's directions to head towards her chambers, the warmest in Winterfell, while she and Arya continue to sob and pay contrition to each other.</p>
<p>......</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"How is she?" She asks, as she quietly slips back into her chambers. Arya is buried under furs and Sansa, who has managed to pull herself away to recover more, lays another one on top of her.</p>
<p>"She's fine. She hasn't stirred, though we might not be able to find her if you bring anymore furs," he teases.</p>
<p>Sansa laughs quietly, her heart soaring as she looks at her sleeping sister. The colour is finally coming back into Arya's cheeks and Jon had made sure that her belly was filled with hot soup and bread while Sansa fretted over warming her chambers enough. She is sure that the blue of Arya's face will haunt her dreams for some time to come.</p>
<p>"I can't believe it," she whispers. "It feels like a dream still."</p>
<p>"It does," Jon says and she feels selfish when she remembers how close Jon and Arya were and how much he must have missed her too.</p>
<p>"Shall I leave you with her for a little while?" She asks, though she hopes he might say no. She wants to crawl in beside Arya for worry she might disappear and if it wasn't for her own fitful sleep habits and her sister needing rest, she would.</p>
<p>Jon looks surprised at her question for a moment before he shakes his head. "I think it best if we both leave her to sleep. Come, grab your sewing and we can light a fire in my chambers."</p>
<p>Sansa does as he instructs but she can't help but take one long glance back at Arya.</p>
<p>"She'll be fine, Sansa. She'll still be here tomorrow." Jon says, gently tugging her arm and she knows he is right. "I promise it."</p>
<p>Sansa already feels better.</p>
<p>......</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"You're nervous."</p>
<p>Jon crouches at the hearth and stokes the fire. He has been keeping his promise well to treat her better since their confrontation and Sansa has determined to match him.</p>
<p>This has become a near nightly ritual for them though they generally use her warmer chambers for it. Often she will sew and knit while he sharpens Longclaw or dozes. At times they will speak through the night, talking each other through their day or sometimes they will sit quietly in silence partaking in their own thoughts or activities.</p>
<p>Tonight, they talk of Arya.</p>
<p>"I'll have to tell her tomorrow," he says and Sansa need not ask what he means.</p>
<p>"You could wait," she suggests, gently. "Not a lot of people know. We could tell the others to hold their tongue until you're ready."</p>
<p>Jon laughs mirthlessly. "We'd be waiting a long time, Sansa. Besides, I don't think I could lie to her like that."</p>
<p>Sansa pities him for it but he and Arya were always so close. "She won't care, Jon. You were always her brother. Her favourite even. She will consider you as such anyway. Nothing will change for her."</p>
<p>Jon stalls, his broad shoulders tensing before he turns his head sharply and gives her a weighted stare. "Answer me honestly, did it change for you?" His tone is firm and direct but Sansa knows him well enough by now to recognise an edge of cautiousness that laces his words.</p>
<p>It's a strange question and one Sansa doesn't quite know how to answer as she considers the answer quite obvious. The news itself wasn't difficult to hear and if she hadn't have felt so sad for Jon, she might have even been gladdened by it. To hear that her Father's honour and love for her Mother was truly not tainted would have been a blessing she once might have welcomed but remembering how much it had pained Jon had dampened any joy before she could truly appreciate it.</p>
<p>"It's different for us, Jon," she says carefully because she's still not quite sure what she means to say but she wants to be careful not to unsettle any progress that has been made between them. "There was always a distance between you and I that you and Arya did not share."</p>
<p>She doesn't tell him that she didn't think of him as her true brother because those are old words that do not need repeating and they are ones he already knows well. Nor does she mention the fact that they had barely come to consider each other as brother and sister before suggestions of marriage were being flung at them.</p>
<p>"Aye," Jon says. "There was."</p>
<p>She tries to distract him with cute plans of the things they might do together now Arya has returned to them but that only seems to make him more pensive and quiet so she focuses on her sewing while he lulls himself into a doze with his own sombre thoughts.</p>
<p>She becomes so distracted by her sewing that she doesn't realise how much time has passed until it becomes dark enough that she struggles to see her delicately embroidered patterns. She looks over at Jon who is still napping, his head turned a little uncomfortably to the side. He will wake with an aching neck tomorrow but Sansa can't bear to disturb him. He finds sleep so rarely these days.</p>
<p>She returns her attentions back to her sewing until she notices him stirring in his sleep. He begins to twitch and mumble, his breathing becoming more rapid and shallow as he finds himself tangled up in a nightmare. Poor Jon, he carries so much weight and wicked memories on his shoulders. Leaning over, she settles a hand on his shoulder giving him a gentle shake and when that doesn't ease his fitting, she rests a palm on his forehead instead, and brushing sweat soaked curls aside with her fingertips.</p>
<p>He wakes startled at the sight of her and covers her hand with his own, taking a deep breath through his nose before releasing her hand and allowing her to take it back into her lap.</p>
<p>"What did you dream?" she asks but she can tell by his fixed gaze on the fire that he will not share it with her tonight.</p>
<p>"Nothing important," he lies, straightening his back. "What are you stitching?"</p>
<p>Jon only ever asks about her sewing as a means to escape from discussions he does not wish to have so she always punishes him for it by telling him, in great detail, exactly what she is sewing. Tonight she takes pity and keeps it brief.</p>
<p>"Just a little scene," she holds it closer to him, angling it so it catches the firelight. "Look, I've already done the tree but I want to put a little swallow on that branch there. I haven't decided yet if I want it to be resting or taking off in flight."</p>
<p>"You have fine hands," he tells her. "A fine touch, I mean," he adds, quickly.</p>
<p>He shakes his head and gestures towards her hands, resting in her lap. He clears his throat awkwardly, still noticeably shaken from his terrible dream. "You should try at drawing,"</p>
<p>"Thank you. I think I might try that. I'll see if Ser Davos has some spare parchment and inks tomorrow." She already knows she won't do any such thing. Who has the time to draw these days?</p>
<p>He nods and returns his gaze to the fire. Even from his profile she can see that his eyes are still heavy lidded and hazy with broken sleep and his hair and furs are in disarray. He looks almost like a boy with his flushed cheeks and always solemn mouth.</p>
<p>"Sansa, I've been thinking," he says, drawing off at the end of his words. There is a nervous tension to the set of his shoulders.</p>
<p>"About?" she prompts when he does not finish.</p>
<p>He meets her eye and holds it steady before shrugging and turning back to the fire. "Never mind. It's not important; just boring old nonsense about the running of Winterfell. It can wait."</p>
<p>Sansa does not wish to be bored tonight so she lets it drop but plans not to let the matter rest entirely, for there is something in Jon's voice that tells her it is more important than he suggests.</p>
<p>"Tell me of your morning," she asks trying to lighten the burdens on his mind. "Were you in the training yard long before I arrived?"</p>
<p>Jon is most at home in the training yard and it bothers him that he does not get to spend as much time there as he desires. "I managed to spend half the morning there yet still not as long as I would have liked. The recruits are learning well though."</p>
<p>"Perhaps I could take over the figures and the sums officially," she says, carefully. "Then you would have more time to practice with your sword."</p>
<p>Jon is not the only one who has been thinking lately. With the absurd suggestion of marriage between them firmly dismissed, Sansa knows that discussion will soon turn towards suitable Queens to seat beside him and she would feel better with a legitimate role already in place once her duties as Lady of Winterfell fall to another.</p>
<p>Hope and surprise flare behind his eyes before he shakes his head. "It's a boring task. I wouldn't burden you with it."</p>
<p>"It wouldn't be a burden." Sansa says, a little too quickly, for what little she does of it already, she does not find boring. The more she thinks of it, the more she finds it a perfect solution. She would dread to feel herself under the feet of the people who run her home around her. "I would enjoy being of some use to Winterfell. There's only so much sewing I can do after all."</p>
<p>Maybe her own self-deprecation is too evident for Jon is staunch and straight backed in his reply.</p>
<p>"Your sewing has bought life to the place, has bought the Starks back to Winterfell. Everybody comments on how fine your direwolf banners are."</p>
<p>Sansa nods for she knows it is the truth. "But still it would be nice to have a place secured for me here."</p>
<p>Jon furrows his brow and she knows he is mulling over her words, trying to find the sense in them. He appears to be on the edge of words but he does not voice them.</p>
<p>Sansa pauses for a moment, unsure if her thoughts are even fit for discussion but she decides to press on. "because I've also been thinking."</p>
<p>The rest of the words won't come easily to her and Jon only waits a moment before he teases.</p>
<p>"Is that your entire announcement? Am I to be impressed?"</p>
<p>"Hush," she scolds, lightly cuffing his arm for good measure. "With all this talk of marriage; I've been thinking about the duties I undertake, and what is to happen when you do get married."</p>
<p>"I didn't know I was betrothed to anyone," he says. His teasing is laced with sarcasm and discontentment.</p>
<p>She smiles though her patience will hardly brook much more of him. "Jon, please. You do know that my duties thus far are the duties of the Lady of Winterfell and could cause great offence to any wife you take. I'd rather secure my boundaries now than be accused of crossing them later."</p>
<p>"Don't fret over it, Sansa. I have no wife yet and no plans to take one. If I did, it wouldn't matter anyway. You can keep whatever duties you wish. My imagined wife would have to bear it."</p>
<p>She is almost stricken with shock at the impropriety of it and, despite herself, cannot help but feel somewhat sympathetic towards the future Queen in the North. "But the Lady of Winterfell-,"</p>
<p>"You are the Lady of Winterfell," he interrupts. "They made me King to lead their armies but Winterfell is yours by rights, Sansa, and it forever will be. I don't even have a bastard's claim on it anymore. I won't contest anything you decide to do with it."</p>
<p>Sweet Jon, he is as stubborn as he is full of honour yet completely inconsiderate of the proprieties of court. "Winterfell is <i>ours</i>, Jon." She says, aware she is contradicting her previous assertion but she will not allow that to get in the way of making this point. "I wish you wouldn't fight me on the matter. It belongs to our family—all of us."</p>
<p>His smile is a good effort. "Well, you're late to hear the news, My Lady, because apparently I'm not a Stark."</p>
<p>It is said in jest, in a bitterly self-deprecating way that Jon has perfected to a skill, but it irks her. That he insists on setting himself so far apart from her when she tells him he need not is bothersome.</p>
<p>She huffs. "You are the son of Lyanna <i>Stark</i>." She picks up her sewing, half contemplating flinging it at his head. "But fine then. If you wish to remain ignorant, you may be only Jon Snow and as Lady of Winterfell, I say it is nothing without Jon Snow so you can stop talking silly about wives you don't even have yet. It's nonsense."</p>
<p>"Nonsense that you came up with!" he protests, his words thick and Northern. They always are when they rush out of him in anger.</p>
<p>"Well then I say you should stop talking about it <i>right now</i>. You're upsetting me."</p>
<p>She expects him to retreat as he often does when she mutters those few magic words. Jon does not like upsetting her, he rarely likes upsetting anybody, but Sansa has learned a few tricks to turn his mood in her favour. Usually, he will drop the matter and set his mind on soothing her with jokes and stories that are odd and poorly told. He never could tell a proper joke though he has a talent for small, quick quips that are as stinging as they are brief.</p>
<p>Tonight, he glares at her for a moment too long before he shakes his head and laughs at her.</p>
<p>Sansa is discomforted by him. While she enjoys hearing him laugh because she doesn't hear it very often, his reaction is something new and unfamiliar to their routine. She can only deduce that he has turned to mocking her and she doesn't like it one bit.</p>
<p>"Oh, don't look so sour," he says, leaning over and pinching her cheek. "I'm only laughing because I adore you, even when you're acting foul."</p>
<p>She swats his hand away and keeps her lips pursed, although she would be a liar to not admit that his words warm her heart. His reasoning is wrong, of course. She's quite certain that the only bad behaviour is his own but his fingers keep teasing at her cheeks, prodding and pleading for a smile until she cannot hold back.</p>
<p>"Stop it," she protests weakly which only drives him further to mischief as his fingers find purchase elsewhere, digging into her neck and sides until she squeals and curls up into a laughing, ticklish heap.</p>
<p>"Okay," he laughs, his hair mussed up and his face still flushed from his poor sleep. He arm stays around her back, a warm heavy weight, as she fixes the hair that has half fallen from her braids and he reaches over to help her to smooth the thick strands from her face. Once done, he looks down at her and holds her gaze for a moment.</p>
<p>His eyes are ever so dark. Sometimes she envies the warmth in them. Often she cannot understand how he has managed to maintain such a warmth when he has seen horrors of his own; lived horrors of his own. The depth of them seems never-ending. She wonders what he thinks of her own, if he looks at her and sees two blue walls of ice that shut out anything and anyone who dare to gaze too long.</p>
<p>He rights her a little, keeping his arm at her back in place. Ghost ungracefully settles at their feet, huffing, as though remaining upright is too much effort. Sansa kicks off her slippers and clenches his fur between her toes, his head lolling to the side to allow her access to the scruff of his neck.</p>
<p>"You darling boy," Sansa tells him.</p>
<p>Jon laughs and nudges him with his boot, not unkindly but more firmly than Sansa's touch. "You're getting too spoiled," he tells his direwolf.</p>
<p>Sansa turns a furrowed brow on him. "Nonsense. Don't play that I haven't heard you whispering your own sweet words to him."</p>
<p>Jon rolls his eyes at her exaggeration, a smirk threatening the corners of his lips. "Aye, I'm full of sweet words," he says, sarcastically. "Like those honeyed princes you used to make up for your stories and games. What was it; Prince Flouncy and the Dragon's Lair?"</p>
<p>"Prince <i>Florian</i>," Sansa amends, haughtily. "Not that I pay much attention to such childishness now," she adds with a smirk of her own.</p>
<p>"I made a very good dragon though," Jon says with a wink.</p>
<p>"A natural," Sansa teases and their conversation ends with laughter. Sansa is sure they are both thinking of Robb because how could they not. Robb had always been Sansa's favoured hero; charming, strong and destined for greatness, swooping in to save her with a stick in his hand and a pot lid, stolen from Old Nan, as his shield.</p>
<p>She remembers Jon grumbling over it sometimes. <i>"Why do I always have to be a monster or a scoundrel?"</i></p>
<p>She can no longer bear to remember what her answer was.</p>
<p>"You are a better hero than I believed you to be," Sansa says softly. Remorsefully. The blanket of warm memories is beginning to chill.</p>
<p>Jon draws back a little, as though surprised by the turn in conversation and in Sansa's tone. There is consideration in his dark eyes, a soft smile only a fraction bittersweet on his lips. "I imagine we are both more than we believed each other to be."</p>
<p>He swallows heavily, his smile suddenly gone, and Sansa wonders what memory he sees that causes the turn in his own mood.</p>
<p>Sansa murmurs her agreement and lays her head on his shoulder, her eyes straining to see her sewing in her lap as she goes back to work with her needle. "Let us not dwell on memories," she says, feeling somewhat guilty that it was she who dropped such a heavy weight into the middle of a pleasant conversation.</p>
<p>Ghost sleeps under her feet, Jon watches the fire, quietly, and Sansa halfheartedly sews until it is time to return back to her own chambers where she curls up next to Arya, smoothing sweat soaked hair off her brow, the way she used to do when Arya was a newborn babe and before Arya learned to talk and argue with her.</p>
<p>Sansa refuses to take her eyes off her sister until she, herself, falls asleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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